January 26, 2011

Holding your little black notebook, you let me know: Everything I need to hurt you tonight is in here.

You lay me gently on a red-sheeted couch. Inside the notebook is a scalpel, a clean blade and several cloths of rubbing alcohol. Into my chest is cut a story: from the world tree ihwaz is harvested jera the gift gebo of a powerful laguz birth inguz.

Fresh runes bleed by each areola. You lick up the blood and clean them with stinging alcohol.

And you tell me a story. When I was a little boy and it was snowing… A smile breaks across my face, recognizing the narrative. I started to draw a space ship… You cut, over my heart, the intimate honor of a powerful symbol from your mythology.

August 14, 2010

This rope has a story. I tell you ( a top, shaman, trickster, lover – there’s a warning or ten in there – ) what potential magick I see in rope; how it holds a history and may be applied with the precision of prophesy; and this hemp comes to bind us together, a perfect line of intent.

You braid it against the tension of my hands; in practicing, we echo and grow this refrain daily.